Got Kohlrabi?

Poor kohlrabi. Hardly anyone pays it any mind. And usually if they do, they quickly dismiss it as “that-weird-alien-pod-looking-thing-I-don’t-know-what-to-do-with.” Or worse, diss it as something Jabba the Hutt might snack on between frogs and monkey lizards.

This member of the cabbage family flummoxes people with its unfamiliar shape, which looks as if it must be a missing piece of something else–and surely not the edible part! But yes, that green or violet, bulbous stem (and it is, in fact a stem–not a root) is edible, and once you peel back the rough exterior, the pale celadon flesh is sweet, juicy, and versatile–and fairly cries out for all manner of preparation. If you've ever tasted the peeled stem of very fresh broccoli, think sweeter and milder and juicier, and you've got the general idea. Taste- and texture-wise, it has been compared to a cucumber or a young turnip (or a cross between the two). The dark green leaves, which may or may not still be sprouting from the kohlrabi globes by the time they arrive at market, are similar to collard greens and can be cooked in the same ways (alas, the ones pictured above arrived without their greens).
 
As soon as I got the hang of what to do with it, I began enjoying kohlrabi’s appearance in our CSA share and at farmers’ markets. Cooked, the vegetable becomes mellower and sweeter, holding its crispness when sautéed and stir-fried, and becoming soft and tender when steamed or boiled for longer periods of time. Cubed, it roasts nicely alongside winter squashes. Pureed into a creamy fall soup, kohlrabi becomes silky and luscious. Elizabeth Schneider, in her always useful Vegetables from Amaranth to Zucchini, offers kohlrabi preparations from around the world, including a spiced Indian soup with chickpeas and tomato; Vietnamese spring rolls; and Swedish meatballs with baby kohlrabis (!). This recipe for kohlrabi tsatsiki, which appeared in New York Magazine, makes a tasty sauce for roasted lamb. And while I'm at it, here are some additional kohlrabi links, from Simply Recipes.

While kohlrabi is mellow and sweet when cooked, my favorite preparation is simple and raw, as a respite from all the roasted and braised fare on the fall table. At the most minimal, it can be chopped and dipped into hummus or herbed, fresh ricotta. But it’s also nice tossed in salads and slaws with other fruits of the season.

This weekend, I picked up pounds of purple kohlrabis, along with my pie pumpkin, from Marble Valley Farm in Kent, CT. Like many farms in the Northeast, this one took a beating during the freakish weather that whipped through this summer and fall. Many fall crops perished, but the tenacious little kohlrabis hung on. Any vegetable that can survive a hurricane, Biblical flooding, more flooding, and 18 inches of tree-splitting October snow is a hero in my book.

If you come across this crazy-looking vegetable in the coming weeks, why not give it a try? Better yet, include some in your Thanksgiving celebration. In the very least it will serve as a conversation starter, and you'll more than likely sell your fellow feasters on the virtues of kohlrabi. Cut the peeled globes into pretty half-moons as a seasonal addition to a healthy vegetable platter (serve raw or quickly blanched). Or if you have a bunch, as I do right now, try the slaw recipe below, which you can think of as an guideline for whatever other flavors and colors you would like to incorporate; think shredded radishes, thinly sliced celery, or a little julienned raw kale. The recipe is a variation on our go-to summer slaw, which we enjoy every 4th of July with slow-smoked pork shoulder, but this version has a bit more snap and substance, in keeping with the season. I use a little bit of mayonnaise to round the whole thing out, but if you prefer to leave the mayo out, you can certainly substitute the equivalent amount oil, or adjust to your liking. Either way, the recipe still comes across as light without being austere, and serves as a refreshing break from the barrage of ultra-rich dishes that are bound to come our way this week. 

Wishing you all a happy and healthy Thanksgiving!

Kohlrabi and apple slaw  
Serves 4-6  

• 2 medium kohlrabis, leaves and leaf stalks removed 
• 1 large, red crisp apple (like Ida Red or Jonagold)  
• 6 scallions, whites and pale green parts sliced into thin rounds 
• Optional: 1 bulb fennel and/or 2 medium carrots  
• 2 teaspoons dijon mustard  
• 1 Tablespoon mayonnaise (preferably not a sweet one–I like Trader Joe’s organic) 
• 1 Tablespoon apple cider vinegar 
• 3 Tablespoons olive oil, sunflower oil, or grape seed oil 
• 2 teaspoons caraway seeds (add more at the end, if desired) 
• Salt and pepper to taste 
• Optional: sunflower seeds or toasted, chopped walnuts

Instructions:

• Peel kohlrabi either with a vegetable peeler, or, if skin is tougher, cut off ends with a sharp knife and rest on a flat side on a cutting board, then carefully cut off outsides, going down and around–make sure you remove not just the visible skin, but the fibrous layer just underneath it. Next, julienne or shred either by hand, on a mandoline, or in a food processor. I prefer to cut kohlrabi into thin matchsticks that retain their crunch.
• Julienne apples in the same manner as you did kohlrabi, keeping peel on (you can toss them in a little lemon juice to prevent browning). If you’re using other vegetables, peel and treat in the same manner. Put all vegetables in a large bowl and set aside. 
• To make dressing, whisk together mustard, mayo, vinegar, and oil in a separate bowl. Taste, and add salt and cracked pepper as desired. If you would prefer not to use mayonnaise, substitute an extra Tablespoon oil, more if dressing still tastes too acidic for your liking. When ready to serve, drizzle dressing over vegetables and toss. Sprinkle in caraway seeds. Taste, and add more salt and pepper if needed. Slaw can be tossed up to a half hour before serving, and refrigerated.

Stocking up

As the weather begins to turn, so do my thoughts–to making stocks as bases for all the soups, braises, and sauces that will warm the kitchen as we descend into winter. I’ve started squirreling away containers of them, as many as the freezer can hold, and I look forward to those rainy days when another fragrant pot of stock simmers to life on the back burner.

This stock-making penchant comes from my Dad, who used to become uncharacteristically quiet when, on weekends, he gathered the kitchen scraps that would transform into demi-glaces or game sauces. As soon as a string of crisp days came along, he lugged down his tallest stockpot, which took its place on the rear right quadrant of the stove, beside the small wooden barrel where he poured leftover wine to make his own vinegar. The first day, the pot sat tranquilly as delicate currents circulated around the jumble of bones, vegetables, and bundled herbs inside. Once the liquid went to gold and had drunk all the essence from the solids, he strained the whole mess through a fine, cone-shaped strainer into a smaller pot, where the clear stock concentrated further, overnight and into the next day, darkening from wheat-colored to ochre, and finally to a rich umber emulsion through which bubbles rose thickly. You could chart the progress of the stock’s reduction by the strata of skin around the inside of the pot, ruffling in the rising steam.  

Somewhere during those years, ‘tween self-consciousness kicked in and I bristled at all the elaborate goings-on in our kitchen. I worried ours would be that weird house with the heavy, soupy smell that made visitors want to leave as soon as they walked in the door. And there were other things, far more unsettling things, like the moldy hams curing in his hand-built wine cellar, the shotgun safe, and the sacks of limp birds he toted home from hunting expeditions. All of this felt way too conspicuous in our 80’s Lipton suburbia. Later, Dad took up fly-fishing and practiced his roll cast in the front yard, in full view of the neighbors, and decked in full regalia, to boot: hat, hiking socks pulled up his shins, and a vest adorned with net and scissors and lures (mercifully, he stopped shy of the waders). It was simply too much for a sullen teenage vegetarian to take. I retreated upstairs to the safety of the TV room, where I could see the fishing line whipping back and forth in front of the window as I tried to concentrate on Real World marathons.

Eventually I regained my senses, and I couldn’t deny for long that cooking (and omnivorism) was in my bones. My prescient mother bought me a giant stockpot as a gift for my first apartment in NYC, a tiny studio on the Upper West Side. The kitchen itself wasn’t much bigger than the vessel, which ended up getting used as storage for cookie cutters and pie weights and other things that saw the light of day once a year. I still have that pot, bought at a kitchen outlet somewhere, and from which many stocks have sprung. It’s a good one, even though the glass lid is cracked and it’s a bitch to clean. I also use it to steam lobsters and seal jam jars and, as always, store pie weights.

Making stocks is more than just my chance to wallow in nostalgia–it’s the essence of kitchen thrift, since many scraps discarded as garbage are, in fact, the makings of some of the finest soup bases. Leek tops, wobbly carrots, mushrooms gone slightly soft–and of course bones–are all fair game. If you are an enthusiastic cook but have not yet crafted your own stock, make this your year! What I've learned is that precision is overrated; in cooking school we were handed recipes and expected to follow them to the letter, told to hover scrupulously over the stock pot, ready to skim should any globule of fat or foam rise. Years of casual stock-making at home have taught me that this is unnecessary, unless you strive to create the clearest of consommés. The classic French method dictates that you fashion a neat little bouquet garni–a bundle of herbs–and neatly tie it together. I've found that 1. it's not the end of the world if you don't have every single herb dictated, and 2. it's a waste of time to tie everything neatly together when, after all, you're straining the whole thing at the end, anyway. Amounts don't have to be precise, either–just don't add too much water, or the stock will be diluted.

Below, I’ve included some tips to make stock-making easier and more fulfilling. I’ve also included a recipe for chicken stock. If you can get your hands on them, chicken feet make some of the richest stock possible–I buy mine from Grazin’ Angus Acres at the Carroll St. market on Sundays. In another family tangent, my Mom loves telling the story of how she and her friend once sneaked a bag of raw chicken feet into someone’s fancy cocktail party, painted the toenails harlot red, and arranged them neatly on doilies, to be passed among the other canapés. Crazy Mom, these are for you.

Stock tips

• You may have all the makings of a vegetable stock in your fridge: anything a little past its prime yet not moldy works well. At a minimum, you'll want onions and carrots, but try to include celery, as well. You can also throw in garlic, mushrooms, and a little bit of tomato, among other things. Just avoid starchy root vegetables, as they will cloud the stock. 
• Be a vegetable completist: if you are making corn chowder, use the cobs to make a stock. For winter squash soups, use the skins, seeds, and pulp (along with other aromatics) for a flavorful base (strain this liquid before pureeing with roasted squash).
• When ordering chicken parts from the butcher, ask them to save the backs, necks and wing tips–stash them in the freezer until you reach critical mass and have a good day for stock-making.
• For the richest chicken stock, use not only backs but collagen-rich parts such as wings, necks, and feet
• After roasting a chicken and picking it over, simmer the carcass and leavings in a pot with some vegetables, herbs, and water. 
• If you make stock regularly, invest in a “chinois,” or fine-mesh conical strainer. Its deep basket holds a lot of gunk and fits nicely over pots.
• To save space, reduce stock way down to concentrate it. Freeze it in ice cube trays, transfer frozen cubes of stock to freezer bags, and use as needed; you can always add more water to dilute later on.
• I like this recipe for homemade vegetable bouillon, from 101 cookbooks
• Doctor the stock–The old man himself recently confessed to buying store-bought stock ("the ready-made kinds have gotten so good," he insisted). His tip: in a pinch, you can elevate it by simmering with aromatic herbs.

Chicken Stock   

Ingredients:

• 3-4 lbs. chicken bones with fat and excess skin removed; include a mix of backs, necks, and feet if possible
• 2 medium onions, chopped (skins on)
• 4 large carrots, roughly chopped (skins on)
• 1 large rib celery, chopped
• 1 dried bay leaf
• a few fresh sprigs thyme
• 6-8 whole peppercorns 
• a few parsley sprigs

Instructions:

Rinse chicken bones and put into a large, heavy-bottomed pot or saucepan–choose a pot that holds the bones snugly, allowing for headway and room for vegetables and water. Cover bones with cold water and bring just to a boil. Lower to the gentlest simmer and allow to continue like this, undisturbed and uncovered. Do not boil. Periodically skim off any foam that rises to the top. After about an hour, add vegetables and herbs. Simmer them together for another few hours (2-3), then take off the heat. Pour through a fine-mesh strainer into a clean container. If you like, reduce stock further by simmering vigorously in a clean pot. Refrigerate and, once chilled, skim off any fat that has solidified on top. It is normal and wonderful for chicken stock to congeal when cold. Freeze your stock in freezer-safe containers. You can also freeze it in ice trays and use the cubes as needed for sauces, soups, and risottos.

In between

There has been some confusion in our house, especially among the small people, about what season this is. There's been some denial, some wearing of sandals (with socks stuffed underneath), even on these 50 degree mornings we've been having. It's hard to part with summer, especially the kind of summer that's likely to stand out in childhood and adult memories. So, when does autumn truly arrive–and has it already? Do we officially cross over to the other side once the school doors open? When the blog returns from a long vacation? Or after the balance of daylight and dark shifts, and the calendar says September 23rd? Maybe it happens in the markets, when pumpkins and mums make their entrance, or in the kitchen, when the urge to bake returns and we break out the red wine again.

Maybe it's not so clear-cut at all, and it doesn't have to be. Though the carefree anarchy of summer vacation was hard to say goodbye to, this limbo time is sweet, before the first frost silences the crickets and banishes sundresses under beds for good. The market stalls are overflowing with both summer and fall produce now, so we don’t have to choose between corn and acorn squash just yet, and we can grill and braise to our hearts' content. And we can even pretend, on the weekends at least, that we’re still on vacation: our feet planted firmly in two worlds as we pick apples in t-shirts and sip rosé in front of the season’s first fire.

Better still, the oven is back in action and late-summer stone fruits are very much hanging around, even though the apples are closing in fast. The recipe below is one of my favorite ways to use all the plums–the beautiful dusty-blue prune variety–we've been getting through our CSA. The original version, from the fantastic David Lebovitz, is for a plum-blueberry upside-down cake, which was just the thing in July, but too late now for local blueberries. So I gave it a try with only plums and loved the elegant simplicity that resulted; we were sneaking slivers for breakfast and enjoying wedges for dessert with plum ice cream from the irresistible Belgique Patisserie, in Kent.

Baking this cake warms the house on a chilly morning and fills it with the scents of browning butter and caramelized fruit. The best part about this easy-to-make dessert, which looks like a flat round of nothing through the oven window, is getting to flip it over and reveal the rosy whorl of baked plums beneath. You hold your breath just a little…like mother nature holding hers right before she puts on her flamboyant fall show.

Plum Upside-Down Cake  

Adapted from David Lebovitz, Ready for Dessert: My Best Recipes

Ingredients:  

Topping:  

• 3 tablespoons (1 ½ oz.) unsalted butter 
• ¾ cup packed light brown sugar  
• 7-9 plums, halved, pitted, and sliced into ½ inch wedges  (alternatively, combine 6-8 plums with 1 ¼ cups blueberries or other berries)

 Cake:  

• 1 ½ cups all-purpose flour 
• 1 ½ teaspoon baking powder  
• ¼ teaspoon salt  
• ½ cup unsalted butter, softened at room temperature  
• ¾ cup sugar  
• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract  
• 2 large eggs, at room temperature  
• ½ cup whole milk, at room temperature

Instructions:

1. Preheat oven to 350º. 
2. To make the topping, put the 3 tablespoons butter in a 9-inch round cake pan or cast iron skillet. Set pan on stove and melt butter over low heat, then stir in brown sugar until it is thoroughly moistened. Spread the sugar mixture evenly over bottom of pan, and let cool for a few minutes.  
3. Starting in the center and nestling slices close to one another, arrange plums in a pretty pattern of concentric circles, until you reach the outside and cannot see any of the pan's bottom.  
4. To make the cake, whisk together flour, baking powder, and salt in a small bowl. In another bowl, beat together butter and sugar with a mixer until light and fluffy, 3-5 minutes. Add the vanilla and eggs, one at a time, beating until completely incorporated. Mix in half the flour mixture, then add the milk, followed by the rest of the flour, and mix until just combined.  
5. Scrape the batter on top of the plums in the pan, and spread it evenly over them. Put pan in the oven and bake until the cake is golden brown and passes the toothpick test–about 50 minutes to an hour. Allow to cool for about 15 minutes. Run a knife around the side of the pan, then cover pan with a large plate. Using oven mitts and keeping plate and pan firmly together, carefully flip the whole thing over. Lift pan off of plate in one smooth, confident motion.

Serving: Serve warm with whipped cream or ice cream. If serving later, re-warm cake in foil, in a low oven.  
Storage: Store at room temperature for up to 2 days, using the baking pan as a lid over the cake.